


Empty Promises

by Bhelryss



Series: AU: Zombies [4]
Category: Fire Emblem: The Sacred Stones
Genre: F/M, anyway. now you know where we're at, it probably is gen but idk. zombies man., minor necrophila, t for teen just cause it's a man and his wife and his wife is a zombie and he's still affectionate, um. zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-12
Updated: 2019-03-12
Packaged: 2019-11-15 22:14:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18081905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bhelryss/pseuds/Bhelryss
Summary: Monica sleeps in the king’s quarters, that wide bed and all the elegant furnishings her home, but Orson sleeps in the throne room. Saddle and tack and the old bedroll he’s owned and used since he was a junior knight are hidden behind that ornate chair. It’s not comfortable, but he’s lived harder as one of Prince Ephraim’s personal knights, so he endures. This is not the habit of a man come to glory.





	Empty Promises

Orson sits on the throne, hunched over with his elbows on his knees. His head hangs low, and his hand are closed around the shaft of his lance, which leans up against his shoulder and butts up against the heel of his boot. The room is empty but for him, no servants, no animals, the room is quiet but for his own breaths. (They rattle in his chest, these breaths, from the cold that has decided to live in his lungs and refuses to go away.)

The castle isn’t any better occupied. Rats trawl the kitchens, the food mouldering without interference. Dust settles across the castle, not disturbed by any feet or wiped away by hands, and it tickles at the back of Orson’s throat whenever he leaves the throne room. He coughs,and he wheezes, and he breathes in cold and dust and emptiness and exhales the same. 

Monica sleeps in the king’s quarters, that wide bed and all the elegant furnishings her home, but Orson sleeps in the throne room. Saddle and tack and the old bedroll he’s owned and used since he was a junior knight are hidden behind that ornate chair. It’s not comfortable, but he’s lived harder as one of Prince Ephraim’s personal knights, so he endures. This is not the habit of a man come to glory.

Prince Lyon, in his mercy, had come to Orson with a promise, and a bargain.

“I know of your pain,” Prince Lyon had said, and Orson, in his grief, had turned to that sympathy like a flower to the sun. “Sir Orson, you have lost so much.” And Orson had agreed, because his heart was shattered glass, more than half-buried with the woman who’d granted his life so much light and laughter. His loss was all-encompassing, his duties suffering as he wrestled with his grief, and his Prince awkward in the face of Orson’s weakness.

So, he had been met with an offer. 

And Orson had hesitated because even tormented as he was, it was still treason. But Lyon had said, promised, softly, “He’s my best friend.” A truth. “And I love him,” another truth, “I would never hurt him.” A vicious, ugly lie, but Orson wouldn’t know. He couldn’t even guess. “Don’t you deserve more time to be happy, Sir Orson? If you let me help you, I can promise you’ll have that time.” 

Orson had believed, and a bargain had been struck.

And for a short, bittersweet while he’d been a man with a heart revived. Color and laughter flooded back into the world, leaving him breathless. He lived with purpose again! Castle Renais was his, and Monica’s, and they had a handful of servants to keep things running. It was glory, it was beautiful, it was a lie.

Monica’s skin is ashen, and cold to the touch. He’d thought, at first, that within a few hours, maybe days, she’d regain a healthful color, that she would, eventually, warm. But the hours had come and the days had gone, and she had remained cold. Orson had, at that hopeful beginning, held her cold hand and brought her knuckles up to his lips.

“Take your time, my dove. I’m here. I’ll always be right here.”

He would always be right there for her. She was the brightness and all the good in his life, and without her he’d been a shadow sublimating away under the sun. A few days, a week, he would give her anything. He couldn’t promise the moon, he had never promised her anything he couldn’t deliver and he wouldn’t start now, but he could promise that. “I’m right here, Monica.”

She’d hummed, and he’d wept despite his smile, so glad to hear her again. 

He can’t weep now, no matter how much he wishes he could. He’d shed so many tears when she’d died, and he’d cried so gladly when she’d been returned, that in this desolate twilight he has nothing left in him. No more tears to shed despite how prettily his heart has shattered anew. Orson lifts a hand from his lance to lay over one eye, heel finding purchase on his cheekbone and fingers disappearing up into his hair. It is a terrible thing, the heavy quiet that weighs on his shoulders.

He had dressed her in the queen’s dresses. They had been stored away for Eirika, for when she had grown enough to wear them. Perhaps the princess had tried them on, a child in her mother’s dresses, or maybe they had fit but she had left them behind. He didn't know, but truthfully he hadn’t cared. The castle was his, Monica was alive, and he could deliver her finery that she’d never been able to dream of. 

That was the habit of a man come to glory.

And she had looked so lovely. Even cold and strange, the warm colors had given her a more healthful look, and he’d cheered and whistled as she turned a slow circle. She’d looked so beautiful, with her hair fixed how she’d always liked it (he’d taken a great joy in brushing her hair, as she leaned back against him and hummed in the back of her throat, as if she would speak if she could) and a little smile on her lips. She’d stumbled back to him, and had fallen into his lap with another hum. He couldn’t wait for her to speak again, couldn’t wait to hear her again. “Oh, my dove,” he’d whispered, giving her a chaste kiss. She was still cold, but he could wait.

He could wait.

Prince Lyon had fled, the night he had brought Monica back. He’d looked at her without compassion, only briefly, and then he’d barked out a dry, “Congratulations, Orson. You have what you want.” And then he’d left the room almost at a jog. And Orson had brushed it away, on his knees beside his silent, still wife, holding her as she lay limp and quiet. Her fingers had been twitching, remembering how to move again, and he’d held her hands with tears at the corners of his eyes. He’d been so grateful.

The first time she’d spoken it had been breathless. “Darling,” she croaked, voice rusty with disuse. He’d jumped at the word, what she’d always called him, and had practically flown across the room. He’d fallen to his knees, captured her hand in his own, and had pressed gentle kisses to her palm. Her head had tipped to the side, as if she had lost control of her body and had become unable to hold her head up, and she’d crooned, “Darling.”

And he’d cried, fallen at her feet, “My dove, Monica. You’re back, you’ve really come back to me.”

Now, he stands outside the king’s chambers, the door closed. Orson can hear her, bumping against the furniture, murmuring over and over, “Darling.” She’s calling for him, or maybe she is simply stuck in that last moment of life, forever paused at the cusp of death. Monica had, in those final minutes, put a hand to his face, wide and beautiful eyes almost cold with her exhaustion, and she’d said, “Darling.” And then she’d been gone.

He hopes she isn’t calling for him. It takes all his sense to stay firmly on this side of the door, and if he seriously believed she was calling for him - he’d fall. So he can’t. He can’t go in again. If he does he will be lost to madness, he is certain. Orson closes his eyes, hands and shoulders braced on the door, and he listens to her calls. She can sense him, he knows, because her calls grow louder, and the door shakes when she encounters it. 

“Darling?” she calls, and Orson squeezes his eyes shut against the tears that prickle. The door moves again, as if she’d hit the door. “Darling.” Orson’s hand begins to drift towards the handle, so he tears himself away. He flees back to the throne room, glad that the castle is empty. He stomach is turned, uneasy, so he skips the kitchen in favor of his bedroll and his lance. He can almost laugh (and cry, because to laugh is to cry). Isn’t it funny? Sir Orson, so devoted to his wife, sleeping alone. Monica’s bed is wide and cold, empty of him, and he punches a bundle of saddle blankets into a more comfortable shape before he uses it as a pillow. 

He stares at the high ceilings, he grimaces, and he throws out a hand to the empty spot next to him. In better times, Monica would have filled it. Now, it is cold flagstones and dust underneath his fingers, and it aches all throughout his heart. He keeps it there for a while, fingers growing chill as the sunlight fades away and the throne room becomes dark. He closes his eyes, and begs for sleep.

The throne is cold, but he sits there anyway, watching the early morning sunlight march across the floor as the minutes slip away. Then he stands in the kitchen picking apart one of the few things still safe to eat, hardly hungry. He can hear rats, though he cannot see them, and that only prompts him to eat faster. It isn’t clean here, and even lingering this long makes the food sit ill at ease in his stomach. 

When he’s fled the kitchen, he washes back up near the king’s quarters. The hallways, despite the dust, are beautiful even in their vandalized state. The tapestries that had graced the walls are torn and left to fade in piles on the floor. He looks one way and sees a visage of the king. (After a moment of quiet, his face flickering between expressions, he flips it over so that the king’s face is no longer visible. Orson quickly walks away.)

Hand resting on the door handle, Orson breathes through his nose, lips pressed firmly together. Eyes closed, he opens the door.

Monica used her newfound voice frequently. Her hands batted at his, wanting to be held, and she leaned over, head angled to rest on his shoulder. “Darling,” she’d called, words whispered into his neck, “Darling.” He’d held her close, one arm looped around her waist and the other brushing hair off her shoulder, and he’d closed his eyes and released a relieved breath. This was everything he’d wanted.

He’d kissed her goodnight, and had curled himself around her like he’d done before she’d been ill, and he’d thought to himself, “Tomorrow, tomorrow she will be even more like herself.” That thought had carried through to his dreams, where he’d sat in her lap and had rested his head on her shoulder. It warmed him, and when he woke (rolled back onto his side of the bed, as was his habit despite his own wishes to remain in that embrace) he’d rolled onto his side to watch her sleep. Only, she hadn’t been asleep. So he’d moved, and she’d turned to him, and he’d smiled at her despite his drowsy state.

“I hadn’t thought you’d be up yet,” Orson had said, reaching out to caress her face. “You used to sleep in every chance you got. I hope I didn’t disturb you, my dove.” She’d blinked at him, and he smiled to see that in this habit, nothing had changed. His beautiful wife, difficult to wake in the mornings and all too quiet until the morning had nearly become noon.

He’d kissed her goodbye as he left for his duties, a king’s work was never complete and he had always done his best to perform his duties as well as he could, and had promised her dinner. “I hope your day is less stressful than mine,” he said, and an escaped smile had infected his words and turned them teasing. And he’d left her, still laying in bed, and gone to his duties

After returning, he’d found her sitting in a chair, head tilted to the side and with wide, wide eyes. The door closed behind him, and she’d shivered and picked up her head. “Darling!” She’d said, getting to her feed and stumbling forward. Even still, she hadn’t regained her balance. He’d met her halfway, lifting her up and spinning in a circle. Before, this had always made her laugh, smack at his shoulders and demand to be put down in a tone full of smiles and love. 

Now, she did nothing except lean forward and keep her arms around his neck. She said nothing, and Orson had quickly come to a stop and had gently delivered her back to the ground. “Do you no longer like that, Monica?” He’d asked it gently, taking a knee and holding her hand. “My dove, I will never do nothing you don’t like.” 

And she’d said nothing, and he’d taken it for the rebuke it was.

But his hand is still on the handle, and he wonders if he’s brave enough to go in. He stays still, and hears nothing, and imagines Monica all alone in that room. Never able to leave, and never dreaming of leaving either. Eyes closed tight, he leans forward to rest his forehead against the door with thunk. The noise brings Monica closer, and through the wood he can hear her cries. “Darling.” An answering thunk on the other side, as Monica pats at the door to try and get to him. “Darling.”

Orson finds he still has no tears to weep with, only a stinging sensation behind his eyes that is a twin to the ache in his heart. He raises hand to place on the door’s face, and lets the other hand drop from the handle to his side. There is nothing he is afraid to do so much as he is afraid to open this door.

His clue that his gift, the promise that Prince Lyon had kept and delivered on, was not quite the miracle he had welcomed so happily was the fact that Monica had no heartbeat. He hadn’t noticed for a long time, despite holding her and sleeping next to her, and loving her just as fiercely as he always had. He hadn’t noticed. She could breathe, she could speak, she walked with him sometimes. How could he ever believe this was a curse. How could any extra moment with Monica be anything other than a blessed miracle and a gift of an unspoken magnitude.

No heartbeat…

Not a beat, not in minutes, not in hours. And he  _ had _ tested it. He’d sat there with her in his arms, cheek pillowed on her head, holding her hands and thumbs on the pulse points in her wrists. He’d sat there for hours, enjoying holding her, but with a coldness under his heart that crystalized further with every breath. 

Orson had found himself with a terrible decision. Did it matter. Did a heartbeat really matter? Was she alive, was his dove still dead or had she come back, changed forever in ways he could hardly wrap his mind around. How could he, how  _ could _ he. His dove, his wife, his brilliant, kind, devoted wife. With a still heart in her chest, and a chill to her touch.

Was her passivity part of that? Her inability to speak, was that also caused by that unbeating thing trapped beneath her breastbone? It had been a thought so excruciating, he had felt the need to flee the rooms. He had searched his old rooms for his bedroll, had stolen his horse’s tack and more than one saddle blanket from the stables, and he made himself as comfortable as possible behind the throne. 

He had the servants make themselves scarce. He’d caught on in the hall outside Monica’s door, and he lost his temper. “Don’t ever come back here,” he’d snarled, heart thundering in his throat. What if they hurt her, what if they knew her heart didn’t beat. What if, what if, what would they do to her? He had to protect her. Even without her heart, she was sitll his wife. Orson could not allow her to come to harm now, just as he had always done his best to safeguard her from harm when she was still warm, when her heart had still beat.

And his own heart kept leading him here. Hands on the door, forehead pressed against it. Some days he knelt, knees on the cold floor and one hand trailing in the dust while the other lay in his lap. Some days he paced the hallway, never slowing, distressed with what he knew. 

It was driving him mad, his inability to decide. Was his wife still his wife, or had she been replaced with a creature so similar as to be maddening? He was certainly feeling mad now, standing uncertain in front of a door, debating the meaning of a stone like a heart. How many days has he done this? How many days...too many days.

“Darling?” 

Orson pressed himself closer to the door, and imagined that Monica was doing the same. Oh, she was missing him, he knew it, just like he was missing her. “My dove,” he calls back, decision finally made. She needed him, she wanted him. Monica was calling for him and he’d left her alone for too long.

What was a heart, his still beat and it belonged to her. 

“Move away from the door, Monica. Don’t worry, I’m here.” 


End file.
